The Room Where It Happens
by Myth979
Summary: Mary. Bash. That missing week.
1. Chapter 1

Bash dragged her from the river. It couldn't have been easy – it _hadn't_ been easy – and she knew it, for she could not have dragged herself out. Her skits were soaked through and heavy, and the current wanted to take her and keep her – like Henry did.

Like _Francis_ did.

Bash, who never seemed to want anything more from her than what she wanted to give, smiled at her when she staggered to her feet. It was a good smile, she thought, sad enough to be real. None of Francis' sunny promises were tucked away in the corners of Bash's mouth to be broken later.

"That wasn't so bad," Bash said.

"You and I have different standards, I think," Mary replied. She panted, water dripping from her fingers, her hair, her nose. The drops left little abstract patterns at the edge of her skirts' spreading pool of water.

His smile faded a little, and he said, "Probably."

When she stumbled over her hem he caught her elbow and kept hold. It was not a courtier's grip, though she knew he knew what a courtier's grip should be, and it was not Francis' grab when he wanted her attention. Bash supported her when she fell and held on after, grip light, almost resting there like he did not want to stop touching her. His hand was warm.

Mary should order him to remove his hand, or make a pointed comment, or even just shy away. Mary did none of those things. His hand was warm. She was cold. She let him pull her closer.

Later, when they reached an inn, one of the innkeepers was all solicitousness.

"Some soup and a warm bed will fix you up right, miss," the man told Mary sympathetically as his wife eyed Bash askance.

The woman relaxed when Bash requested two rooms and a hot bath for his father's ward.

"I've been charged with her safety," he said, smiling at the couple. Their smiles grew in response; how did he do that? "I've done a poor job with it so far."

They rushed to assure him that anyone could be attacked by bandits, all belongings stolen, and escape with only their lives and what they carried on their persons. "Even Queen Catherine, it is said," the man informed them.

"Indeed," Mary said. Bash glanced at her. Whatever he saw made him leave the innkeepers to discuss highway robbery between them and usher her upstairs.

He waited at the door for her to look around. A bed. A table. A small window. Nothing very fine, but she would be warm under the covers.

"The bathwater should be up in a bit," he said. "If it isn't, you can let me know. I'll ask after it."

"I am to go to your door?" Mary asked. Nothing she was taught of manners or etiquette could apply to the situation. Bash's very _existence_ in manners and etiquette was nebulous, as a king's bastard son, and Henry was not here to give a guideline. She would not know exactly how to treat Bash even if they were surrounded by courtiers, and they were alone in a room.

She was alone, with a man who was not her betrothed or husband or brother or father, and she did not know what to do. With Henry she tried to keep her dignity and her country both intact. With Bash she thought neither her dignity nor her country at risk, but there was something that reminded her of Henry in how he watched her. He never seemed to _stop_ watching her, for one thing.

Bash shifted in the doorway, arms held behind his back stiffly as though he wanted to stand to attention. He was not a servant, but she was a queen, and she should not have to visit him for aid.

"I could knock," he offered. "After a bit, I mean."

"Yes," she said almost before he finished speaking. She did not blush. She did not think she could be embarrassed with Bash anymore, and she did not want to be alone.

He watched her for a long moment, and said slowly, "I could stay. Until the water is brought up."

"Yes," she said again.

He smiled, but this time there was something wary there. She did not want Bash to be wary of her. He left the door open when he entered.

"I am not dangerous," she told him, trying to tease. "If I were, I need not have fled."

Bash's smile became sad again, but at least it lost the wariness. "You are entirely dangerous, Mary," he said. "As you should be."

She did not know what that meant, but she did not want to say so.

The water must have been heating before they arrived, for the innkeepers hauled the tub and several buckets of still-steaming water into the room before conversation could resume. Bash watched them the whole time, hand on his dagger hilt in a way he probably did not notice.

The innkeepers noticed. Mary tried to smile at them as Bash had earlier, to soothe the sting of their previously amiable guest's sudden too-alert stance. They left in a rush despite her smile: she was forced to conclude that she simply did not have a way with people. Children always liked her, though. Perhaps they sensed in her a similar frustration to their own, for no one took children seriously either.

"Well then," she said, reaching around her back for her laces. "I'll just-"

"Yes," he said, and turned to go.

His hand was on the doorknob by the time Mary realized there was no getting the knots undone. She realized it quickly: her nails could not find the spaces between the laces. Had Lola tied them too tightly?

Bash left, closing the door behind him, and she stared at the steaming water, arms twisted behind her, fumbling for the knots. She could sleep in her clothing, she was sure, but she couldn't bathe in it, and if it took her so long that her bath water was cold when she climbed in she was going to cry.

Now was not the time for tears of frustration – those could come later. Now was the time for solutions.

Mary let her arms, which were beginning to ache, fall to her sides and strode out the door.

Knocking was harder. She didn't know why. She managed a timid rap on Bash's door before managing to squeak, "Bash? I would appreciate some assistance."

He opened the door almost before she finished her sentence. "What's wrong?"

He had stripped off his jacket and gear. His shirt fell open at the neck and was not as thick as it might have been.

Mary had seen men in their shirtsleeves before. Plenty. Lots. She just couldn't remember any of the others right now.

"Umm," she said, waning confidence waning even further.

"Are you well?" he asked, stepping out and scanning the hallway. If there was trouble she would have screamed, not knocked politely, but she supposed he was used to Catherine, who would calmly request aid in the removal of a body after killing an assassin.

Probably.

"I cannot remove my clothing," she said.

He blinked. And blinked again.

"My lady?"

Mary turned and walked back to her room. He followed, probably frowning, and waited once again in the doorway.

"I cannot untie my laces," she said once she was safely in her room. The door was open, but she felt better anyway.

"Ah," Bash said.

"So _help_ me," she said. She knew she came uncomfortably close to whining, but the tub still steamed – a minor miracle. So help her, she would get a hot bath.

He cleared his throat and walked in, closing the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

"I can reach," Mary said after a long moment of nothing happening. She demonstrated, feeling small in the face of what appeared to be judgment. "I only cannot – the laces will not un-knot."

She knew her lips were pressed together in a line, corners turned down, jaw set. _Cheer, Mary,_ the nuns would have said. _Good cheer and unflappability – the marks of good breeding._ But Bash would have been a massive hypocrite to care about good breeding, and he had never minded her at worst.

"Oh," he said, and came closer. "They are swollen from the water."

"Would you," she began, and stopped. She was about to ask him to _help her undress_. The nuns would have been appalled. Her ladies would have been appalled. Catherine – Catherine probably would not have been appalled, but Francis would have. Mary _should_ have been appalled. She considered it and decided otherwise.

"Would you help me, please?" she asked again.

Bash hesitated. He was already past the door, he had no reason to hesitate, he had her plea for help, but he did anyway, and Mary liked it. She liked more that after that brief moment he came to her anyway, boots almost but not quite silent, because she had asked. She turned her back, pulling her still-damp, stringy hair forward over her shoulder.

The sound of his footsteps stopped. Instead she could hear him breathing – quick, shallow. As if it was difficult.

"Mary," he said on one of those quick breaths, a short, bitten off sound wound so tight she knew something was about to break.

"Yes," she said. Asked? She wasn't sure. Her voice might have cracked in the middle.

He stepped forward again. She felt his breath on the back of her neck: goosebumps rose. She was suddenly and inexplicably aware of every hair on her head, aware of the tug when she twisted the ends of her hair around her fingers. She wanted Bash's hands in her hair. She wanted – she wanted something she didn't have a name for, something dark and warm, something that felt too good to be right, maybe. The nuns would have thought so. It was huge, all encompassing, vague and too-defined both. Her toes tingled, her fingers, her feet –

Touch me, she almost said. Please, anywhere, this is unbearable –

She didn't, and he didn't.

His hands were sure on the laces, firm, but he could have stopped when the knots were undone. She could have told him to stop when the knots were undone – she _should_ have told him to stop when the knots were undone. But he didn't, and she didn't.

Mary stood, her dress loosening in increments, cool air bathing her back but retreating in the face of Bash's warm breaths. By the time he was on the last row, just past the small of her back, her breath matched his. The touches he hadn't given burned on the skin of her bare back so badly she shivered.

"Are you cold?" Bash asked.

"No," Mary said. "No, I am not cold."

"Oh. Good."

The last laces came free, slithering through their openings, and Mary caught at her overdress, holding it to her body.

Silence. Someday, Mary reflected, she would learn how to deal with any given situation, but until then she would probably have to grow used to awkward silences.

"I'll go, then," Bash said finally. Mary turned just in time to see him flee through the door, though he did close it carefully behind him so it didn't slam. Maybe she was terrifying. Maybe the thought of her naked was repulsive. Maybe –

Maybe her bath was getting cold. Sighing to herself, she dropped the overdress, letting it pool on the floor, and pulled her shift over her head. She felt immediately better, if not exactly steadier: the thought of being clean and warm was practically a restorative in and of itself.

The door opened.

"I'm sorry, I left with these-" Bash began, and stopped.

Mary nearly screamed. Bath or Bash, please god, she thought. One. Just one. I don't need both, and Bash seems disinclined to be given, but the warm bath, god, the warm bath, haven't I been good?

She picked up the tattered scraps of her dignity and said, without turning, "Left with what?"

He didn't answer. She glanced over her shoulder to see him studying the wall to his left very determinedly, though he didn't look embarrassed in the least, only… grim.

"You have seen naked women before, Bash," Mary said. "I cannot be _so_ distasteful. What did you leave with?"

He held out her laces wordlessly, and Mary realized that he hadn't closed the door. She sighed. Again.

"Close the door," she ordered.

As if on reflex, he did. Then he seemed to realize he should probably have left beforehand. His hand found the handle again.

Mary, tired of everything, stepped into the bath. The nuns would be aghast. She thought Catherine might approve.

"Mary," Bash said.

"You don't have to stay," she replied, settling against the side of the copper tub. The water was no longer hot, but it was warm enough that sinking into it felt… well. Like a warm bath. She was too tired for this.

The door creaked ever so slightly, and, eyes closed as if not seeing him would somehow make this whole situation better, she said, "You don't have to leave, either. I don't want to be alone."

For long moments, all she could hear were her own small movements in the water, the slight creak of the tub.

"All right," he said finally. She opened her eyes as he sat on the bed, angled so he wasn't staring directly at her.

"One day," she told him, lifting a hand so she could watch the sheen of water on her skin shimmer in the candlelight, "one day I am going to be able to ride around like this without running away."

"Wouldn't that be nice," he said, dry tone a direct contrast to the water on her hands.

She snorted – something the nuns would disapprove of almost as much as a man not her husband watching her bathe. "You hardly ever run away."

"The benefit of a protective father, I suppose."

Mary snorted again, and Bash's quick grin answered her. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.

"What were you running away from, anyway? Just England? I don't blame you, I suppose, though you _do_ have a right to it."

Mary flicked water at him, wrinkling her nose as he only favored her with an amused look. "Your father wants England for himself. I'm the vehicle to get it."

"Well, obviously," Bash said. "He thinks he can rule through Francis."

Mary leaned back, tilting her head so she stared at the ceiling when she said, "He could."

"I know," he said. "I wasn't sure you did."

She thought that over. "Francis," she said slowly, "is not a bad man."

"No."

"But he isn't…" she trailed off. She didn't know exactly what Francis _wasn't_. It seemed disloyal to talk about what he wasn't, when at the moment her only concrete answer was _wasn't Bash_. She loved Francis. She did. She just didn't like France much at the moment.

She didn't like Henry, really, but weren't the two intertwined? Weren't all three of them intertwined? Was she willing to put up with Henry for Francis? Could Scotland afford to put up with France?

Bash waited patiently, eyes on her face. When she shook her head, he said gently, "Francis isn't worthy of you."

"And who is?" she snapped back, immediately defensive.

Bash shrugged, stiff again.

She did not want to let it go. "Who is, Sebastian?"

"That's for you to decide," he said. "You're the queen, not me."

"Then tell me."

He hesitates, but, as always, obeys. In a way. "Someone who knows you're queen. Francis… well, Francis _knows_. But he's Dauphin, and the only person who has ever truly been able to command him is our father. Catherine hasn't tried. Francis doesn't understand that you are a queen, and he is still only the heir."

"So I should wait until he is king," Mary said, the flatness of her tone sinking into the water around her.

"No," Bash said. "He still wouldn't understand that you are a queen. Francis won't ever understand."

A queen ordained by god, Mary thought but Bash didn't say. Bash might be a part of his father's faith, but like the rest of his father's life – family, crown, wealth even – he had never been at the center of it.

She should stop thinking about the nuns. They would disapprove of her entire life at this point.

"Do you understand?" Mary asked. She lowered her gaze finally, so she could see Bash's reaction.

He grinned at her. "Obviously. I've grown up used to always being second."

She caught his gaze and held it. The grin slid off his face.

"I worship you, Mary," he said. "You know it."

She nodded, and held out a hand to him. Drops of water fell, the candlelight reflecting all sorts of light in them until they hit the floor. There, they looked red.

"Worship me, then," she said.


	3. Chapter 3

Bash took her hand and pulled her to her feet, pulling the towel from its place on the hearth to dry her off. He did it slowly: of course he did it slowly. For all the man charged recklessly off in pursuit of whatever task Henry or Francis gave him, he had always been careful with her, whether it be the return of her dog or the care of her ladies or, most especially, with her welfare.

She almost told him not to bother when he had her sit on the bed and began working his way down her legs, but he looked up at her through his eyelashes when she made to speak and, well. It was unfair for a man to have those thick lashes, when at least two of Mary's ladies would have killed for them. It was more unfair for him to look up at her through them when he knelt at her feet.

"Mary," he said when he finished, holding her ankle, thumb running lightly up and down as if he couldn't help it.

"Bash," she said.

He nodded and leaned forward, pressing a single kiss to the side of her knee, right where the crease ended. She bit her lip: it felt… it tickled, but not in a bad way.

"All right?" Bash asked. "Usually I – most women are more vocal."

"Should I be more vocal?" she asked, immediately worried. "I'm not-"

"No," Bash said hastily, over whatever she had been about to say. She wasn't sure what it would have been. "No, you should – you should do whatever you want."

So she reached out to run a hand through his hair. He closed his eyes.

"You have very thick hair," she said. "Not like your father's at all."

Bash opened one eye. "When I said you should do whatever you wanted, I didn't think it would be talking about my father while we were…"

"While we were what?" she asked, her tone arch, her brow cocked. She was _nervous_. Bash would never hurt her, but –

Bash surged up, her hand still in his hair, so his hands could cradle her face.

Mary had been kissed before, not least by Francis. She had been kissed by _Bash_ before, but something here was different: before, kisses had been nice, if wet and a little strange. She had understood the intent, though, understood that the person kissing her liked her or at least liked how she looked.

She was not sure she understood the intent anymore. Bash seemed to be saying something she could not quite understand, some archaic dialect of romance that she had no translation for. She was sure she could figure it out if she wasn't _losing her mind_.

"Oh," she said when he pulled away. Not far – his forehead touched hers. His nose brushed hers.

"Oh?" he asked, teasing.

"I liked that," she said. Her voice did not sound entirely as it usually did, but it still sounded like her. She felt like herself.

"Good," he said, and kissed her again.

This time she bit his lower lip almost on accident, but she did not apologize: he made a surprised little sound, not discouraging, so she did it again and he moaned and laughed when he pulled back.

"You liked that?" she asked, just to be sure. Mary knew the mechanics of sex – she had learned the basics of midwifery with the nuns, and it had been educational. She had _had_ sex. Once. No one had mentioned biting.

Bash smiled at her as he propped himself up on an elbow so he could run a thumb along her lip and say, "I did. Do you? Like that sort of thing?"

Mary couldn't help it. She made a face at him.

"Right, no, you wouldn't… know. Would you?" His face closed off for a moment, but Mary, feeling daring, kissed the thumb still at her lips, and his eyes softened.

"I did already get the first bit over with," she said, refusing to sound apologetic. She mostly succeeded.

His brows furrowed. "First bit over with? What first – no, wait, over with? Do you not want-"

"The first time," she said patiently, wondering if he had never actually slept with a virgin before. She supposed he probably hadn't. "It hurts the first time. So you don't have to worry about-"

"Oh for the love of god," he said, rolling off to the side and covering his eyes, ignoring her indignant huff over the blasphemy. He immediately uncovered his eyes and caught her arm when he felt her shifting away. "No, not you, I'm sorry. It doesn't hurt if you're _doing it right_ , Mary. I promise."

Mary did her best to look skeptical, though she did wonder how Bash had, apparently, learned to have sex correctly and Francis had… not? She knew Francis had slept with women other than her. Maybe it was only that he was a prince, and they had not wanted to comment. Bash did tend to be more accepting of constructive criticism.

"I hate everyone," Bash muttered, but he rolled back over and kissed her again. "Let me know if something hurts or you don't like it. That means _something is wrong_."

"Oh," she said.

" _People_ ," Bash said, in the same tone Catherine would have said _pagans_. Mary tried not to giggle. "It isn't funny, Mary, if Francis told you-"

"Francis didn't tell me anything about this," she said, bringing her hands up so she could cup his face. He looked so irritated. She leaned up to kiss the line between his brows while he frowned down at her. "I'm sure he thought someone else would tell me."

"Well now I want to hit him for that," Bash said, but he had stopped frowning.

"Don't hit Francis," Mary ordered, and traced over Bash's cheekbone with a thumb. "Don't think about Francis right now, maybe."

"Right," he said. He knelt up suddenly, making Mary start, but it was only to peel off his shirt. Much to her own surprise, her hands went immediately to his stomach. Should she be more hesitant, after Francis?

She pressed, a little, and felt the firmness of his midsection under her fingers. "Is this all right?"

"Let's agree that the same thing goes for me as for you," Bash said, looking down at her, hands resting lightly on his own thighs. "If it hurts or I don't like it, I'll say something."

Mary sat back and considered. It seemed fair. "I don't like being naked when you're not," she told him, testing just a little.

He laughed, sounding surprised. He wasn't laughing at her, but she poked him in the ribs anyway. Bash had so many scars – she was painfully aware that at least one had been gained in her service.

There were fewer scars on his legs than the rest of him, once he got his pants off. She rubbed an absent hand up his thigh as he leaned down to kiss her again, moving to bite light just under her ear.

She pushed him back. He went without more than a hiss of protest, laying out on the bed. "Would you – could you-" Her lack of words was frustrating. How to ask?

" _Yes_ ," he said, strained, hips shifting restlessly. "Yes, whatever you want, I just – what do you want?"

"Could you show me how?" she asked, and hated that her voice went high-pitched and unsure.

Bash visibly pulled his thoughts together, trying to prop himself up on his elbows. She put some of her weight on his shoulders – nowhere near enough to actually force him back, if _any_ of her weight was enough to actually force him back – and he gave up. "Show you how to what?"

"I don't want-" she gestured helplessly around her midsection. "I don't want to be pregnant. Yet."

"Right, no," he said. "I wasn't thinking, I'm-" He tried once more to sit up. She pushed him down again.

" _So_ ," she said, irritated that he wasn't getting her point. "Show me other things to do."

He stared at her, and she wondered briefly if she had managed to shock him, but no: he shook his head – short, sharp – and said, "Come here."

She could have made a remark about already being there, but instead she followed his beckoning fingers and let him, finally, sit up and pull her into his lap.

Bash tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled. She smiled back, but he still looked sad, a little, so on impulse she leaned forward and laid a quick kiss on his nose.

Strangely, that seemed to have more of an effect on him than anything up to this point: his whole face softened, eyes crinkling at the corners before he leaned his forehead into her shoulder. "You're so good," he said. "How are you so good?"

Was she? She didn't know. Did she want to be? Being good had not, after all, helped Ayleigh in the end. Being good had not saved Mary from Henry's machinations, and it certainly would not save her from Catherine's. God had not chosen Mary to be _good_ , whatever that meant. God had chosen Mary to _rule_.

"I thought I asked you to do something," she said. Bash laughed against her shoulder, sounding disbelieving, and ran his hands down her back until he could hold her hip and bring another hand up between them to fondle her breast.

She made a tiny, approving sound she hadn't known herself capable of as his calluses dragged against her nipple, her hips grinding down as if by their own volition. She squirmed, suddenly aware of the ache low in her belly, between her legs, and decided to be brave.

Bash made a quiet sound when she moved his hand down, but it didn't sound disapproving in the least, especially not when he started rubbing small, hard circles where she hadn't ever quite dared, too afraid that someone would _know_.

She hissed, one hand coming up to tighten in his hair and the other at his shoulder as she hunched over him, biting her lip.

" _God_ , Mary," Bash said, squeezing her hip a little harder and shifting a little to do _something_ that made stars go off behind her eyes, why hadn't anybody told her she could feel like this? "God, you're perfect."

"Maybe," she managed, because he made her feel like she might be, but it was choked and tight and her hand on his shoulder slipped in the sweat there.

He chuckled in her ear, nipping at the lobe, and she wanted to say something witty, really she did, but her hips were moving in short, sharp jerks and her mind had stopped working quite right, something fizzing around the edges, and she might or might not be drawing blood with her nails so she couldn't be blamed for gasping brokenly instead.

Bash moved his head down to suckle on her nipple, and she decided, with a fuzzy sort of indifference, that she was going to die. She decided she didn't mind so much.

Someone, somewhere – Mary could remember who, if she wasn't going out of her mind – had likened worship to ecstasy. She rather thought they'd gotten it turned around, though if God felt like this when she prayed over her rosary no wonder He was so set on weekly mass.

The thought was blasphemous. Mary, riding out a tidal wave of confusing feeling, couldn't care.

When Bash let her lay back, gasping as if she'd been running for ages (or possibly as if she had just climbed out of a river), she couldn't do anything but breathe.


	4. Chapter 4

"Mary?" Bash asked. She could answer. She probably should. Staring at the ceiling would accomplish nothing, and anyway Bash sounded nervous.

"That was nice," she said, realizing belatedly that she should have been more effusive. To make up for it she reached out and grabbed for his arm. She missed – her hand landed somewhere around his diaphragm.

Bash laughed, though, and lay next to her, arm around her waist, face pressed against her throat. "I'm glad."

She could feel him pressed up against her, all along her side, and he was still hard. He seemed perfectly pleased to breathe into her neck. That wouldn't do at all.

He blinked at her when she pushed, but he rolled obediently onto his back, and blinked again when she settled kneeling between his thighs.

"Show me?" she asked.

"Uh?" he said. Mary put a hand just above his left knee and ran it up to his hip.

"You showed me how I could have sex without getting pregnant," she explained patiently, because he looked a little dazed. "Show me how you can."

"I mean, that wasn't the only way," he said. "There's plenty of other ways to have sex without getting pregnant, and really I was having sex as much as you were, I just didn't…"

He trailed off when Mary ran her other hand up his other thigh, knee to hip, so she was leaning forward, bracing herself.

"Show me another way, then," she said.

As if he had no control over it at all, his hand slid across his stomach and down, wrapping around his…

Cock, Mary, she thought. If you're going to touch it, and you're planning on it, you can at least call it a cock.

She watched him stroke up and down, flicked her eyes up - he met her eyes with wide ones, awed like she knew he would be - and, on a whim, dug her nails into the meat of his thigh.

Bash made a choking sound, flinging his head back, hand clenching harder around his cock as his hips jerked. Mary opened her mouth to ask if he was alright in spite of herself, but when she loosed her grip on his thighs his free hand snapped up and pinned one of hers back against his leg.

"It's good," he gasped. "Good, good, you're good."

"Let go of my hand," Mary said, meaning only that she wanted to try something, but it came out firmer than she'd planned and he released her as if she'd burned him, that hand going up to run his hand through his own hair as if he couldn't keep still. His hand was moving on his cock again, faster than before. Mary dug her nails in again and _dragged_.

The sound Bash made wasn't one she'd heard before, but she liked it. She liked it a lot. She dragged her nails back up, leaving red lines that didn't quite fade all the way.

"You're going to kill me," Bash gasped.

"Not today," Mary replied, feeling more confident than she had in years. "I've barely touched you."

"You could," he said, sounding pleading. "You could, Mary, I - you don't have to-"

Mary caught his wrist, stilling it, and tugged it away from his cock. He went with hardly any resistance, though his fingers flexed as if he wanted to. When she looked back at his face, he watched her, panting, eyes wide and fervent as she wrapped her other hand around his cock.

"I said, _show me_ ," she told him, and put his hand back where it had been, now wrapped securely around her own. She felt him flex, saw him heave a breath and slowly, slowly, slowly begin to pull her hand up and down.

"Your grip was tighter before," she said.

"I don't want to crush your _hand,"_ he croaked, pulling at his own hair as if to distract himself.

Mary tightened their grip herself, and tighter still when he twitched in her grasp.

"I thought you knew," she said. "I am not breakable, Bash."

His expression changed, from the soft, needy look to something fiercer. She thought he was worshipful before - now he stared at her as if she did not need to conquer, as if she had the world in her hand already and he knew that was how it should be.

"Not even a little bit," he agreed, and tightened his hand over hers, and whispered, "do you want me to?"

"That was the _point,"_ she retorted, and he came laughing. She didn't even mind the warm, sticky liquid.


	5. Chapter 5

The scene was a familiar one: Mary and Bash, soaked to the skin, lying shamelessly to a pair of innkeepers about their identities, relationship, and purpose. Since that first night, though, they had only bothered to rent one room.

"Will it ever stop raining?" Mary asked wistfully as Bash helped her out of her overdress. She didn't need the help - she had tied it much more loosely these last few days - but it was much easier to have someone taller than she hold it up so she could wriggle out.

"Doesn't it rain in Scotland?" Bash asked as he dropped a quick kiss on the back of her neck and turned to spread the dress over the screen by the hearth.

Mary sighed, and a knock sounded on the door.

"Linens!" someone called, ut as Mary moved to unbolt the door Bash stopped her.

"We didn't order linens," he said, and Mary glanced at the bed, which was fully made up, and the towels that they had carried up with them.

"Our compliments!"

"Under the bed," Bash hissed. "Hide."

Mary dove under the bed and huddled. She heard the door burst open and sapred a brief moment of pity for the innkeepers, who would have to replace at least the deadbolt if not the door, but then Bash's feet came into view followed by guards.

One of them said, "You thought you could run off with a lady, boy? Where is she?"

"Gone," Bash said, grunting as he was shoved into a chair. Mary put her fist against her mouth and bit down on her knuckles. "She left three days ago, I just helped her get out of the castle. She's maybe headed for-"

The guard slammed Bash's head down so it hit the tabletop with a thud. "Don't lie to me, boy."

"Why would I lie to you, Matthew?" Bash asked, voice muffled. His feet remained still, though the guards around him walked restless around the room. "You've always treated me so nicely, I can't imagine not going out of my way to make your life easier-"

Another thunk. They wouldn't really hurt him, would they? He was Henry's child. He was _acknowledged._ Another.

"I'm not _lying,"_ Bash snapped finally. "She just wanted an escort away from the palace. You try refusing a queen."

"She isn't your queen, boy," Matthew said. Mary didn't think she imagined the relish with which he said _boy_ each time.

A pair of booted feet stopped in front of the bed, near the hearth. Mary shrank against the wall, clamping her other hand over her nose.

"She left her clothes?" a new guard asked, and Mary's heart sank. She had forgotten the overdress.

"That's not hers," Bash said immediately. "You'll understand why I want you gone quickly, maybe? Not many women interested in princes are quite as interested in royal guards."

"You're a bastard prince," Matthew retorted, and Mary heard another thunk. "But you did always think you were better than us. Why not add some village wench into the mix?"

"Sarge," another guard said, sounding nervous. "Maybe don't beat him up too much?"

"He's a criminal now," Matthew said. "I get to treat criminals how I like. Especially thieves. Say, you know the punishment for thieving, right?"

Mary heard the particular rough slide of a knife from its sheath.

"Maybe, because you stole from the king, I'll take both hands," Matthew said.

Mary threw herself from under the bed. She didn't make a very graceful entrance - there was no graceful way to throw oneself from under a bed, she thought - but she managed to stagger to her feet.

"Stop," she ordered.

The guards blinked at her, but the ones holding Bash didn't waver.

"I am not something to be stolen," she told them, lifting her chin. "I demand you release him."

Matthew released only a bark of laughter. Bash, one arm stretched across the table, shot him a glare.

"Because you have so much leverage here," Matthew said, allowing a long, pointed pause to stretch out before adding, "Your Highness."

He looked her over from head to to and back again, making her uncomfortably aware that she was in only a damp underdress.

"Release him," she said again,trying to keep her tone steely in the face of Matthew's leer and Bash's imminent hand loss. "This man is my escort back to my country, and I have had enough delays."

Matthew nodded thoughtfully. "I could," he said. "Of course, I can't let a thief go free without some sort of punishment. That sort of thing erodes discipline. Leads to riots in the streets."

He raised a knife, which was larger than Mary had assumed.

"No!" she cried, leaping between them. "No, I promise, don't hurt him and I'll go with you."

"Mary," Bash protested, struggling, but Matthew was putting the knife away so she ignored him.

"Your word on that?" Matthew asked.

"Yes," Mary said. "My word as a queen. I'll cooperate so long as you don't hurt him."

Bash's face was bruised still, and his eyebrow had a split in it, but he still had both hands.

"Get dressed," Matthew ordered. "You don't want to meet your fiance in your undergarments. Your HIghness."

He sent the other guards out with a jerk of his head. Bash dragged his feet, but was removed, and Matthew leaned against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised.

Mary resigned herself to struggling into her wet overdress with an audience.

* * *

Her return was about as she expected: Francis was furious and hurt and confused, Henry treated her like a child, and Catherine treated her like a pupil who had done poorly on a test.

Francis only got one punch in before Mary separated him and Bash, but he left when she stared him down, Bash leaning tiredly against her hip, lip now split to match his eyebrow.

Mary doubted Francis' punch would have hit if Bash wasn't chained up, unless Bash had let it. She wasn't sure Francis would have tried to punch Bash without knowing Bash wouldn't punch back.

"I'm going to take care of this," she told Bash, stroking his hair gently but watching the door to his cell. "I can."

"I know you can," Bash said. "You don't have to, though, Mary. I don't want you getting hurt. You know how my father is."

"I know," Mary said, and left.

When she reached her rooms she called Lola and Greer and Kenna and hugged them each fiercely.

"What happened?" Kenna demanded, and Mary opened her mouth to answer before the thought but stopped before words actually escaped. Kenna was her friend, but Kenna was Henry's mistress too, and she had proved willing to do nearly anything to keep the position. Mary would trust her with much, but with this?

"Bash kept me safe," Mary said. "I'm fine."

Kenna did not press for more, seeming almost grateful, and eventually took her leave.

Lola was not so easily put off, and Greer watched them both worriedly.

"I'm tired," Mary said truthfully.

"Of course," Greer said. She and Lola helped Mary dress for bed, brushing out the tangles in her hair, but when Greer ducked out for a moment Mary turned to Lola.

"I need you to do something for me," she said.

Later Mary crawled out of bed and drifted to her sitting area with its windows, where she could sit and breathe.

Greer followed her, because Greer had followed her most of the night, worried as ever.

"Greer," Mary said, "I need you to pass on a message."

* * *

"Mary knows you fear for your son," Lola said, standing carefully, trying to put Mary's words and wishes into a framework Catherine would understand or respect. "She says, she will leave him to you and to France."

Catherine let out a short, bitter burst of laughter. "Will she? And what exactly does dear Mary want in return?"

Lola stayed silent, as if reluctant to admit that Mary would not do something because a fearful mother asked. The reluctance was not entirely a show: Mary was about to invest so much into this project. Lola didn't know if her queen's plans were genius or stupidity or the longings of a lovesick, lonely girl, but Mary was Lola's queen. Lola had to believe Mary knew what she was doing until she told Lola otherwise.

"Well?" Catherine demanded.

Lola told her.

* * *

Greer found Diane in the gardens, sitting on a bench and staring fixedly at a drooping rose as if she could will it back to health.

"I don't want to hear Mary's apologies," Diane snapped without turning around.

Greer bit her lip and said carefully, "She sends none."

Diane spun on her bench, back hunched, and hissed, "Your queen of scots can go to hell."

The flinch Greer couldn't help made Diane smile with too many teeth. Greer could see canines as Diane turned back to the rose.

"My lady," Greer said, holding her hands out, "if you would listen to me for but a moment-"

"Why?"

Greer too a deep breath. A mother afraid for her child was a terrible thing, and Greer didn't want to intrude, but Mary was her friend, and Mary had asked so she could save someone else. She said, "Mary asks for your aid. She says to tell you - she means to make your son a king."

Diane turned back around.


End file.
